


Saudade

by regularvoltaire



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Cities, M/M, Manchester, Mild Language, Poems, Self-Discovery, barcelona, long pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-16 19:30:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15444231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regularvoltaire/pseuds/regularvoltaire
Summary: The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd. A longing for something so indefinite as to be indefinable; all things born of the soul that can only be felt.





	Saudade

There are a lot of things to hate about football. 

The fouls, the anticipation of a boring match, his dirt-mouthed players, when it rains in the middle of the first half. 

Morning drills, morning locker rooms, morning crappy coffee from the canteen, morning everything.

Even then football still makes the whole world bleak; once you're in you're never out.

 

There are a lot of things to hate about Barcelona.

The conservatives, the way the club rubs off to everyone, the red and blue in every corner.

The fact that everyone was there, how he's always 'the translator'.

The dark haired young Catalan captain.

 

Football doesn't make sense. He would've made a decent businessman; even if he knows nothing about economics, he's a good speaker and he might've pulled it off somehow. Football is fool's game. Managing it is a forthcoming suicide.

Barcelona's a one second decision. A promise of a bigger dream. The people shine with a different kind of pride than in Setubal. He mistook it for hope.

 

There are a lot of things to hate about football in Barcelona.

If he's honest, there are none that he truly cares about. 

 

Football and Barcelona were impulsive decisions. But sometimes the best ones don't happen after a 5 hours tactical analysis rather because a certain striker somehow decides to be in the right place at the right time.

They said he's doing it because nothing else can contain his ego and it's the only thing he hasn't given up because he's in too far deep to be half decent at anything else. Sometimes he even believes them.

If he's honest, when he was five he fell in love with the game.

 

They will call him a traitor later on. The way the club never seems to stick to him like it did to everyone else. They say he forgets it— the way he hates talking about nostalgia— about the 97/98 season and how everyone was there.

If he's honest, his life doesn't start before Barcelona.

Because everything before Barcelona is about taking chances. This time it's about slowing down. He's had decent jobs before, good jobs. But Barcelona covered in its proud red and blue on the evening is a new beginning; too much to behold in a fleeting moment, he found himself wanting to stop the time. Everything before Barcelona doesn't count, and everything after it always leads back to it.

It hasn't started before the first time he saw him on the field.

He remembered then how it used to feel like to run as if the ball is your soul, and the way everything fell easily on his feet— he was never half the player the Catalan was; for that split second he truly missed it. He hated him then. 

It hasn't started before the first time he saw Pep Guardiola— the captain. The way he spoke to his team during the half time when they were on the verge of losing against Atletico; the first one who came to practice and the last one to leave. The way he sat on the bench and refused to leave the whole period he was injured. 

It might've started the first time he talked to Josep Guardiola—the guy; and found out that apparently it is possible to be that equal with someone in agreement and disagreement. No one talks football like him, and if it were anyone else Jose wouldn't listen half as much. He was the only one in the team who could make par with his many languages, and actually conjured a valid reason to challenge his tactical input. He met the Catalan with his terrible taste in wine and his fiery nationalism, found out about his favorite food and the fact that he can't cook for life. 

It terrified him. 

Because it was never that easy; the way things were supposed to slot into his life. He doesn't do friendship, or any kind of relationship— he's too much of a bastard for that. And the bickering, the sought glance of approval after a technical meeting, the standing up against the bastard Fernandez who told him to sit down during the match, the hidden grin to the sideline after a goal, the no questions asked when they slid into the other seat of the car for the sake of continuing their discussion, the unplanned match watching night; were somehow the easiest things in the world. 

So maybe that's when it began— or perhaps it began when he opened the door one night after the horrific Valencia lost to the younger man with his sack of pasta and his disgusting wine who was supposed to be with his team rather than his miserable assistant coach and he flinched at how right it felt like. That night they were a little hazy, their breath a little too warm, and if they sat a little too close or if he let himself stared a little too long at the wiry back of the captain who was ruining his last chance of a decent dinner in his kitchen, he would blame it on the wine. This thing—whatever it is between them, he has no idea what to say about it and he always has an idea what to say about anything.

Jose is not a quitter, but he's a sore loser. He won't start something he'll lose.

And when Van Gaal asked him why Benfica, he might not be telling the truth when he said the manager job was his sole reason.

Pep didn't call. He didn't expect him to—he left before anything could even start. He told no one about his leave except the coaching team so as to avoid the farewell parties. The four years at Barcelona felt like an eternity and sometimes he kept forgetting that he was supposed to be 36 not 51. Years later Luis Enrique would tell him how Pep came to his door with his pasta to find it deserted and he didn't stop kicking balls until morning. 

 

Lisbon shouldn't feel strange; Lisbon should feel like home.

It doesn't.

He has this fear, that perhaps he has been away too long; his heart has been attached to some other city, some other memories, he might never feel like home again.

His team wins; but he drinks, he drinks and he drinks. Offers come, business and pleasure. He takes none. 

By the end of the year he still can't delete that number.

 

Somebody has to be drunk. Pep has to be drunk enough to make that call and he has to be drunk enough to pick it up.

There's a long silence at the start. It's almost deafening.

"You cursed me."

"What?"

"I left Barça." He doesn't expect it but he isn't surprised. He hasn't heard the news yet, which means it has just been officiated this week and hasn't been leaked out to the press.

"Why? You missed me?" It rings a little too close to the truth and if he hasn't had that beer he would've flinched at the silence that follows.

 

"You bastard I should never forgive you."

Jose closes his eyes.

"You shouldn't."

The line doesn't go dead after that, so Jose thought he might as well push his luck—after all it's been a long year of self-torture.

"Where are you going?"

"Italy." "Ah." There is a part of him who won’t admit the hope that perhaps the leave was saying something— perhaps the Primeira Liga. But his stupid mouth has already threatened to say something about how he can't imagine the Blaugrana without his midfielder captain so instead he settles for;

"Best of luck."

"You didn't mean that." And Jose could; he wants to; because it would be so easy to say "No I don't." and settle back to the long lost feeling of their banter. But he left for a reason. So instead he says,

"Perhaps I did." And the line goes dead.

 

Porto offered.

Luis called. Both of them.

Told him he's an idiot and gave him a phone number with an Italian area code. 

Jose gives up.

 

It's not like he doesn't try.

It's just that each and everywhere his dates still feel like they're in the wrong language, the wrong place and he's too much of a coward to analyze what that means. When they start reminding him of the soft hum of a football match in the background and the smell of cheap wine in warm nights he just stops altogether.

 

He calls after their first win. He thinks he needs the euphoria for the courage. 

"Pronto."

"It's me."

There's a short sigh; sharp enough to be meant to be heard. 

"Jose. What do you want?" He switches to Catalan, not Spanish. A lost, then. In the locker room, probably, considering the chatter.

"Nothing. Just catching up."

"Bullshit. You don't do catching up."

He doesn't know what to say to that so he stays silent. Sometimes he wonders what's the point of talking to somebody who can tell everything just by a word.

The Catalan seems to regret his tone; and the next time he speaks it's much gentler.

"How do you get this number, anyway?"

"Luis."

"Which one?"

"Both of them." He knows he's going to get them in trouble but sometimes he's petty enough for a little revenge.

"I heard about Porto." He silently laughs at his own effort to try this because these four words exchange isn't actually going anywhere.

"We won our first this week."

"Cheeky bastard." He almost (almost) smiles. It threads a little too close to a familiar feeling, so he decides to change the topic.

"How is Rome?"

There's a pause—just a breath. It's as if Pep's considering his next words. Jose hates that even after a year he can still tell.

"Well, you know what they say; città di echi, città di illusioni.." 

—Bondone, the renaissance painter once said. He saw his books once, on the shelves of Pep's apartment the rare times he got to visit and not the other way around. The Catalan said he painted and spoke about Rome the way he wishes he could about Barcelona. He still remembers the quote;

Città di echi, città di illusioni;  _City of echoes, city of illusion_

 

Città di desiderio;

 

_City of yearning._

He's still too much of a coward to finish it.

 

He hears someone shouts in Italian from the other end of the line.

"I have to go. Team's meeting."

"Alright." He's just about to hang up when he hears the younger man sighs, as if he's made up his mind— it's scary how he always seems to know when he's thinking.

"4 Via Bolsena."

"What?"

"You heard me." He hangs up.

 

They win their last match before Christmas against his old Benfica. Jose isn't that foolish to feel anything but pride and joy but there is a sense of dread he tries to neglect and he doesn't let his mind wanders to how it would feel like if he has to play against Pep one day. In the end Porto wins almost everything that season. Rui teaches him how to celebrate like champions; or as he likes to call it—to drink until you can bring someone back from the dead.

In the morning he still can't get the address out of his head.

 

Sometimes he hates how well he knows himself yet still can't do anything to prevent it. 

He goes on New Year's eve.

 

His flight is early, yet he only makes it to the doorstep at 10 PM; drinking his doubts away at Rome's shadiest bars. He tries to remember the last time they manage to have an encounter when both of them are sober. He fails.

Pep lives in an apartment 15 minutes from Stadio Olimpico.

The front side of the place is so unlike him that Jose thinks he might've gotten the wrong address. It's in a modern style, oddly jangled up in the cobbled streets of Rome, yet somehow its existence is dull and bleak; as if the owner's saying "Ignore me". But then he remembers his still unpacked boxes in his new apartment in Lisbon even after 2 years and he realizes that Pep's not here to stay. They're not that different after all.

Nobody answers the door. 

After his third try Jose contemplates just leaving altogether. Perhaps there was a mistake. Perhaps he regretted it. Then he realized he's too far gone to make his way back to his hotel without falling down or puking halfway through. Plus his ego's long suffering.

So he stays. 

He leans his back to the front door, sprawled on the floor. He's pretty sure someone will either call the police or drag him there themselves in the morning, but he's beyond the point of caring. 

 

He wakes up to a kick on his calf. 

A good one.

"You'll kill my neighbours."  
It's still dark and there's still no sounds of shouts and trumpets so it must not have reached midnight yet.

He's wearing that damned turtle neck. His hair's a bit longer now, it almost touches his neck. Jose can't see his eyes from here but he doesn't need to. He always knows what they look like.

"You're late." He tries not to stare—believe him he does. But it's been 3 years and he's fighting a losing battle.

"Get out of my door." He sobers up because his calf is too old to take another one of Roma's midfielder's kick. 

 

The interior is much better than the outside, that he could give. But it lacks personal touches; no photos on the walls, no half-read books on the high end table and none of those disgusting Habas fritas he used to bring everywhere around. What's there are half open boxes; as if someone's just passing by, grabbing what's needed and too bothered to do anything. 

He decides that he hates it.

The Catalan shrugs off his coat and shoes and heads to the settee.

Jose is suddenly struck by a certain memory of his small flat in Barcelona; Spain's warmth in the hot summer nights, tactical notes scattered on the table, replay of the last clasico on mute at the background, a certain worn out sofa, a certain set of hands on the wine glass, a certain brown pair of eyes. How he wishes he's still drunk— then he'll have an excuse.

"No late night out?"  Somehow he can't bring himself to sit down so he just stands there facing the window— there's a faint sound of music coming from across the street.

"They're too far gone to tell that I'm not there."

In the dimmed light of the living room he can now clearly see the new lines etched into the younger man's forehead. He looks defeated.

He never did.

 

Three years.

Three years since Barcelona; three years since he last saw him; three years since the new lines on his forehead; three years since Italy, since Portugal. Sometimes it feels like an eternity. 

There's this hollowness inside him and for a second he lets himself feel the late regret; the realization that he's not privy to this new life, the stories behind those lines, what he usually has for dinner, the way he spends his Saturday nights. 

"This place is shit."

"Don't say that. Manel picked it out." It took him a few seconds to realize that Manel is Manuel Estiartes; he remembers Luis Figo telling him about the water polo superstar who came to see their captain after the La Liga final. There's something in the way the Catalan says the nickname that speaks of fondness; the way he'll defend him to death if needs be.

He's too old for it but his heart burns anyway.

"Well, where is he then? Does he live here too?" 

He doesn't turn around; his tone is indifferent but he doesn't think he can hide his eyes well enough if he does.

"He's married."

Jose is a bastard but he's at least partially conscious. They've been dancing around each other for 6 years; they talk about everything except the important things. It's funny how this conversation is the closest they've ever gotten to talk about whatever it is between them.

 

"Even if he isn't I wouldn't want him to."

He feels his legs go weak at that so he has no other option but to sit down.

"Jose, why are you here?" His tone is gentle but his eyes are firm; it's as if he already knows the answer and he's only asking to see if the other does.

"You invited me." 

"No I didn't." He didn't. What he did was he gave him another chance. He invited himself.

"You're leaving. Why?" He motions to the boxes on the corner. Pep sighs, perhaps it's as frustrating to him to have someone reads you like an open book.  
"Some external issues. You'll find out in a few days."

"Bullshit." 

"It's none of your business." The Catalan rubs his face and stands up from the settee—he sounds weary. He starts to make his way to the kitchen but Jose is quicker. He yanks his arm back and now they're standing face to face; so close he could almost feel his breath. 

"You're running away. Why? What's your reason?" He knows full well it's not his right—he's been gone far too long. But the Josep Guardiola he sees is too far gone from the young Barcelona captain from 6 years ago and the memories from that time is the only fix thing that keeps him going in his life. Perhaps he's angry—for letting it go, perhaps he's just selfish—for wanting to keep at least one part of him his.

He feels first rather than see the younger man's face turns into fury. 

"I don't know, Jose. What's yours?" His tone is dead cold even if there's so much heat in the close space between them it makes him hold his breath.

It pains him to know that he's had his fair share of bed partners over the years but none of it ever feels as intimate as this moment.

"You know why."

Pep switches to Catalan; jabs a finger to his sides. 

"No. You know what? Fuck you. I don't. And I'm sick and tired of playing this game while you come and go as you please."

"Josep—" "Don't." The name rings hollow. He wonders at what point has it stopped being Josep and starts being Pep. Jose grabs his hand— he probably shouldn't but at this point he's lost all his ability to think straight.

"What do you expect from me?" The contact burns, his heart leaps.

"The truth." "You already know the truth, you don't need me to tell you."

"I'm leaving to Qatar."

Jose drops his hand.

Somebody shouts. Fireworks.

2003.

 

They're not moving. 

He feels his every muscle burns, his skin raw as if they'll rot from the proximity but will leave a scar if they touch.

He lets himself then, just for a second; to imagine what it would feel like if he takes one more step; how his fingertips would burn if he reaches out to the unkempt week stubble; how his eyes would look like; what his lips would taste like.

But in this close space there's football, there's Barcelona, and now 3000 miles and everything between them.

Jose is not a quitter but he's a sore loser. He's not fighting battles he's already lost. 

So he steps back.

 

Pep looks defeated but not surprised. 

"Happy New Year."

He makes his way to the door. It closes as soon as it opens— a hand barricading it from behind;  a head rested on his back.

"Jose." It almost sounds like a plea.

He thinks a part of him dies then, left behind. And if he leans back just a little, there's no one left to admit it to.

He walks himself out.

 

Time flies after that. Or perhaps it stops—he's never really sure. He wins more than he thought possible in this world, celebrates until he passes out, works until morning. Rui calls him insane—the way he treats football as his drugs. Jose throws a bottle at his face and still he comes back. Sometimes he wonders why he deserves anyone in his life.

 

He hates England.

It never stops raining, the food is terrible and the summer non existing.

England is a whole new world; not Lisbon; not Barcelona; not Rome.

Its cobblestone brings no memories and its cold leaves no chance to remember.

Perhaps that's why he chooses it.  

 

Chelsea is different. He has a feeling about it, like it's what he's been waiting for all this time. The players are different; they're young but they're eager. Jose can work with eager. 

He has a routine, or rather as Rui calls it—the way he calls everything in his life; a cycle. He coaches, watches 3 hours match footage on loop and calls it research—sometimes he stumbles too close to the Qatar league and he turns it off, if he wins he drinks, if he loses he drinks some more. 

He fucks; older guys, never brown eyes; never has them more than once; never remembers their names.

He doesn't do it on Saturday nights and he doesn't bring them home—it reminds him too much of another door, another place.

Football is his mistress—the one unpredictable thing in his fated life, the one he runs to. He's achieved everything he's ever dreamed of, won the champions league, gathered respects, earned enough to buy his next 3 generations a chateau in Nice yet he feels like a dead man walking. Sometimes he wonders how he managed to survive those 4 years. 

 

Jose is not a poet, but he remembers Pessoa; the way his mother used to read to him as he laid his head on her lap in the gentle evening of Setubal.

 

_Os sentimentos que mais doem, as emoções que mais pungem, são os que são absurdos_

The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd.

 

He doesn't understand its meaning then, but he always loves the way the words roll off her tongue and if he closes his eyes sometimes he can still hear her soft voice as she caresses him gently to sleep.

 

_a ânsia de coisas impossíveis, precisamente porque são impossíveis, a saudade do que nunca houve, o desejo do que poderia ter sido, a mágoa de não ser outro, a insatisfação da existência do mundo._

The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence.

 

He thinks he understands them now.

 

2006.

Luis comes to visit. 

The Portuguese.

"You look like shit." 

"Apparently that's what making great football does to you."

"And grumpier too, I see." Jose lets him in and Luis heads straight to his best wine reserves. 

The downside of being friends with a Portuguese is they always know where you keep your best wines.

"I hate this country. We should meet in Portugal or Spain at least."

"I wasn't the one who invited you." They settle down in the living room, Jose watches as his guest drowns half of his 20 years old Douro in one big gulp.

"I invited myself. If not you would never visit." It's a light joke, Jose takes it to heart anyway. He really should do better to the people who've put up with him till this far.

"So." Luis is giving him the look.

"So, what?" He hates that look.

"I didn't just fly 1000 kilometres here to see your face when you feel guilty about being an asshole to your old friends. So, start talking."

"Talk about what?" Luis raises his left eyebrow.

He wonders what did they feed them in Barcelona for four years to turn them into mind readers. He sighs. 

"There's nothing left to talk about." Luis finally puts the bottle down. Jose thanks the God almighty.

"Fine, have it your way. He's doing great, in case you're asking. Well, professionally great; personally, he's much more harder to read than you." 

"You're talking to him?" Jose gives in. His curiosity is bigger than his ego.

"Unlike you some of us utilize this marvelous technology called a phone, you know."

"Italy really has turned you into one sarcastic bastard."

"I heard that's what they do best, besides driving." Jose hasn't grinned that wide in years.

Luis only stays for a day. He says he hates the weather too much and his English is horrible. Jose walks him out to the door.

"Did he ever forgive you?"

"For leaving, you mean?"

Because Luis was the one they called the traitor, el bastardo blanco. He's got pig heads thrown at him and insults each time he came back to Camp Nou for 2 years. Jose has never known anyone stronger, but then perhaps he wasn't there to know what it was truly like for him.

Jose nods.

"Yes, he did. But I wasn't the one he was in love with."

 

 

Pep's in Mexico.

Somebody told him about it since football news have long stopped reporting anything outside the European Leagues. It's infuriating how everyone thinks they're obligated to tell him everything they know about Pep. 

"So, what's he like?" Rui said to him on the pitch during practice one morning.

"What's who like?" Jose is tired of answering questions. He never said a word but somehow everyone knows anyway.

"Don't play that game with me, I've been with you for 6 years. If we're going to win the League Cup again while you still have that look in your eyes, I deserve to get you to talk about him at least once."

Rui doesn't even turn.

Jose doesn't talk about him to anyone. He just doesn't talk about him. Ever. 

He doesn't think he knows how to.

"He has terrible taste in wine." He starts with the first thing that comes to mind.

"Thank god, the world won't survive with two Jose Mourinhos." 

Jose gives him a look.

"He can't cook for life. He always did anyway. His pasta could cause hepatitis."

Rui doesn't say anything. On the field his boys are playing a practice game. He wonders why no matter where he goes in the world they always seems to be in red and blue. And they said he knows nothing about loyalty. 

"He reads poetry, but he'll only read it in Catalan. His favourite is Salvador Espriu." Jose doesn't know why he continues but he does—once he starts he can't stop.

Rui turns to look at him then; his eyes soften.

"Jose, just give him a call at least."

He doesn't answer nor turn. Rui sighs.

"He's retiring, you know."

Jose tries and fails not to flinch.

"How do you know this stuff?"  
"Luis told me."

"What? Enrique? I don't think you know him." Because The Portuguese one wouldn't talk if not asked.

"I don't either." Rui looks him in the eye as if to say: the shits I have to put up with for you.

Somebody scores then, probably Drogba—he wasn't paying attention.

"You know, he said once he wishes he could play forever— just to win another season for Barcelona." It was after a loss. The stadium was empty and they were sitting alone in the half lit field still in their jerseys. He never forgets it. He never forgets any of those days.

"Well maybe not to play, but he is returning next year." Rui sounds as if he's not sure whether he should say it or not.

"What do you mean?"

"Barca's asked him to coach their B team." 

"And he accepted." Jose states rather than asks. He knows him.

"And he accepted." Rui confirms anyway. 

 

He doesn't know if he should feel more pissed or scared.

Pissed because he somehow feels betrayed—although there's no reason to; there was never any promise, not in football or personally. Scared because he knows how good he is and how good he's going to be. Not because he will have to watch his back—Jose is not as vain as the media portrays him to be, but he knows he's good and he likes getting his limits pushed now and then. He's scared of what it will do to them—not that there's anything much of them left to begin with, but sooner or later they will end up facing each other on different sides of the pitch, and he still doesn't know what to feel about that. He decides perhaps it's time to listen to Rui for once.

He doesn't even have his number anymore. Pretty sure he changes it constantly, with the amount of travelling he did.

There are times he questioned his life choices but never as much as asking the other Spaniard.

"Well, well, look who's finally called." Luis sounds smug, which means he's well. He can hear laughter and the sound of kitchen utensils. Retirement seems to be doing him good.

"Just give it to me."

"Give what to you? That's it? No 'How are you'; 'what's retirement like'; 'Is Bora Bora really that amazing'?"

"You know what. You and your schemes; you've been planning this moment since you talked to Rui." He tries to sound disdainful but fails. He really has missed him, in a way.

"Alright, alright. Don't be grumpy, old man. Figo told me about you, he said you're insufferable these days." Jose can picture his grin. Apparently it's infectious.

"That's just because he robbed half of my wine cellar." Luis laughs.

"I'll text it to you."

"Thanks."

"Hey, Jose?" "Can we please not prolong this conversation with many awkward attempts at small talk?" Luis laughs again.

"Just wanna say that it's about time." Jose doesn't know what to say to that.  

"Yeah." 

 

Just like every other time, he waits half a year to call. He's a defensive coach, he sucks at first offence.

2007.

It goes into voicemail. Jose's not surprised, he does the same thing to unknown numbers in his phone— fame has been nothing but an inconvenience at their age.

"It's me." He doesn't really know what goes after that, so he says; "Call me as soon as you get this."

He reflects on it, then adds "Or don't. It's up to you."

Pep picks up before he finishes his sentence. He doesn't say anything though, and Jose has to check his phone again to see if it's really connected.

"You're angry." The Catalan finally speaks.

He sounds a bit hoarse; like he just took a jog or woke up.

He's not supposed to, but Jose leans back to the wall anyway. He doesn't know how much he misses his voice before he calls. If his eyes flutter close there won't be anyone there to see it.

"Before. Not so much now." Pep sighs and Jose is suddenly dying to see his face when he does.

"You don't have any right to be." 

"That's why I'm angry." Jose can picture him shaking his head.

"I never really understand you." 

 

"Yes you do. Better than anyone."

And that's as much slip up he's going to allow.

 

He's out of a job again. 

He doesn't remember the last time he's out of a job; probably around 20 years ago—before Football, before anything.

The day it's finalized Rui comes and jokes whether they should retire and fuck off to Bora-Bora. Jose replies to him seriously.

"Not yet. I'm not done yet."

 

Jorge, his agent, calls him during the summer. He's back in Portugal to see his parents. 

He said one word;

Barcelona.

Jose goes.

 

 

It's not that he's desperate. It has been a year but it's not because he's lacking good offers. It's obviously not because of money either; he's had enough even if he takes Rui's advice and fucks off to Bora-Bora for the rest of his life.

 

He goes because it's Barcelona.

And everything starts and stops at Barcelona. Has been for the last 12 years. 

He goes because Barcelona feels like coming home.

He goes because maybe, just maybe, the assistant seat would be vacant and perhaps they won't have to be on the opposing sides after all.

He goes because perhaps his Saturday Nights won't always have to be a mission to find out how fast he can empty half his alcohol reserve.

He goes because perhaps he'll open his door once more to a certain set of eyes, a certain cheap brand of wine; a certain wiry back with his bag of pasta in front of his stove.

 

The board decides. Laporta and Cruyff are losers. Jose is a bastard, but he's a bastard who wins. He's willing to do anything for it; even sacrificing himself in the media. These guys don't give any shit about silverware, they care more about the club's appearance than its results. Van Gaal and Robson would be ashamed.

4 years of blood and sweat and he's still not one of them.

How ironic that the reason he wants to come back is the one that drives him away.

Pep accepts the job.

He fucks off to Italy.

 

It isn't him who calls this time.

He's in the locker room, doing some pre-season coaching. His players sit around him and listen to his every word—sometimes he wonders whether his job really evolves from being the PE teacher. He's talking about how they're going not going to win the league if they don't defend until they fucking die—the usual pre-season pep talk, when his phone rings. He takes one look at the caller ID and sends a look at Rui.

Rui has that look in his eyes that makes Jose wants to cut half his salary for the next season but he takes over his speech without a second of pause and Jose excuses himself outside.

"Don't you dare to fucking apologize." He snaps once he's out of anyone's reach.

"I wasn't planning to." Pep sounds—not happy, not remorseful or proud, he sounds content. If he still has a heart Jose would almost forgive him because he knows what Barcelona means to Pep and what Pep means to Barcelona.

"Is this payback, then?" 

"For what?"

"My leave." He doesn't elaborate—won't elaborate. They've never talked about it, Jose isn't sure he's ready to do it even now.

"Jose, that was almost 10 years ago. Not everyone's as grudgeful as you, you know."

"You are, you just never said it."

Pep doesn't reply.

Jose always knows when he lies. 

 

They'd say it started in Spain; the way everything falls apart. But really it started in Italy.

Jose knows how he thinks—after all they don't spent four years picking each other's brain apart for nothing.

The problem is it's not a one-sided bargain.

Jose has been dreading the day for decades; he shouldn't be surprised when it ends as a goalless draw. 

The first time they stood side by side from those ridiculous marked coaching zone, he's reminded how far they are from 1996. 

When he looks to the field there are no familiar faces and for the first time the blue and red jersey seems foreign. When he shouts instruction it's in Italian and there's no el Himne that roars as the culés run to the fields, no fast paced Catalan spoken on the technical area, no certain glint in the eyes of a young captain as he points towards him after a goal. Pep's shaved his head off and Jose has started to have a few strands of white himself. There are no more Josep, the young Catalan player and Jose, the new assistant coach; what's there are Pep Guardiola and Jose Mourinho, managers, and for 90 minutes—rivals. There's nothing left to be nostalgic about. It's the beginning of a new era, and as much as he hates to admit it—an ending of another.

Jose knows it's going to be ugly even before it starts. 

 

Luis comes for the semis and sits on the bench. He is a part of Inter too after all.

He looks at the Barcelona team with a kind of lost longing and only now when he's there that Jose finally understands what Inter means to him. Barcelona was his first love—the way Barcelona was for everyone, Madrid his redemption—an endless cycle of proving himself and everyone wrong, but Inter was different.

Inter was home. 

He wishes he was him; then he wouldn't have to come back to Camp Nou with a slight tug of envy in his gut. 

They win the most beautiful lost in his career and Jose would be lying if he says he doesn't feel any satisfaction.

Luis pulls him off after it all—the red card, the snide remarks, the press; smacks him in the head and tells him to go after him before it's too late.

He doesn't. 

He knows it already is.

 

"Please tell me you're not just doing this to spite him." Rui sighs for what must've been the 50th time this week. In his defense, it really has been a horrible week.

"Of course not. Madrid's a perfect offer, I'd be an idiot to say no."

"This is getting ridiculous, Jose." He says, not believing a single word.

He sounds tired. Rui is a physio, he never sounds tired—if he does the whole team will lose before anything ever starts. 

"Don't tell me you're leaving me now." Jose is stricken. He has never imagined it; what it would be like without Rui, he has never even thought that the option was possible.

"Don't worry, I'm stuck with you until I die. Unless of course you die first—"

Jose thinks how easy it would be if only it was Rui.

 

The thing Jose hates the most about football—or perhaps loves the most; is the fact that it’s never just about football.

Football is never just 22 players facing each other on the fields for 90 minutes in a contest of athleticism; football is politics, dirty money, thousands of hours of pre-match trainings and preparations; hundred pages of tactical analysis and strategies. It involves hundreds and thousands of people; trainers, physios, assistants, coaches, even board members to determine the result of the match that it seems naive how the players are always the ones who get all the money and the credits. 

And El Clasico is the worst—or the best of it all. It’s not just FC Barcelona vs Real Madrid, it’s Catalonia’s Barcelona vs Spain’s Madrid. 

It’s funny how it took two of the most richest, most successful football clubs in the world and their longstanding historical and bloody rivalry with two of the best players in the history on each sides to finally settle the blow between them. He always laughs when the media calls their relationship complicated—it’s probably the biggest understatement of the century. 

When he comes back in white, Barcelona doesn’t call for blood the way they did for Luis. They never claimed him in the first place. Jose would be lying if he says he’s not looking for revenge. Somehow, all the titles and awards he’s won reverts back to zero in the eyes of The Catalans. They don’t give respect easily; Jose has failed in the first place, he decides fear would do. Perhaps that’s why he makes it personal.

So much for the glorious returns. 

Losing to nil is already a set back to the team's mentality—especially considering it's the clasicos; but conceding 5 goals is a dead wish.

Jose is a human being but he's a football manager first; sometimes he lets himself have his way to petty hatred.

 

Nobody forgets what happened on April 2011, but if it's up to him, nobody actually remembers what happened on April 2011. There are so many controversies and off pitch play during the so called legendary 4 el clasicos in a month, that what actually happened on the field itself isn't actually that memorable—if he's honest.

The first one even ends horribly with a penalty draw. Halfway through the game he takes one look at Messi and Ronaldo and predicts the score beforehand.

He doesn't know what ticks him. Jose's never afraid to strike for blood; he'll do anything to win but he's usually partly self-conscious. But then he wonders why he's even surprised, what with all the things they're already not talking about, he should be more surprised if it turns out to be anything but an irrational nasty outburst on all their pent-up frustrations. 

His sore loser side will always refers to the explanation that Pep was the one who started it. It's an off remark after losing the Copa del Rey about how the linesman must have had great eyesight to spot Pedro was in an offside position before scoring what would have been the opening goal for the blaugranas.

Jose takes the bait. "Up until now there was a very small group of coaches who didn't talk about referees and a larger group who did," He doesn't remember saying it to the press actually, it was a strange day, an even stranger match. "Now, with Pep's comments, we have started a new era with a third group, featuring only one person, a man who criticises when he makes good decisions. This is completely new to me."

Perhaps it pisses him off, the way Pep plays the cool one, always in control, always the perfect manager—because he knows exactly what's going on in his head and he's not saying it, not to the media, not even to him. Or perhaps Jose's masochistic—they haven't spoken for almost a year; at the very least they're interacting; even if it's through a room full of hungry-eared pundits.

As famous as the tagline goes and the story that follows, Jose himself hasn't actually heard the press conference until Rui replays it for him on match day of the first leg of their Champions League semifinals in Bernabeau. 

"As senor Mourinho has called me Pep, I'm going to call him Jose," Rui gives him a funny look. Jose flips him off.

Pep's not playing with his hand; which means he's serious. It's the first time he cracks. There's some sort of malicious glint in his eyes that tells Jose that this one's personally for him.

"Tomorrow at 8.45pm we will face each other on the pitch. Off the pitch he's won. He's been winning off the pitch all season. Let them give him a Champions League for it so he can enjoy it and take it home. In the press room he is el puto jefe, el puto amo and I don't want to compete with him for that. This is a game of football."

Jose laughs his asses off. Rui thinks he has officially lost his mind.

 

Pepe's red carded. He follows suit. Pep looks at him in disbelief like he never even knows that a non player can get a red card in the first place. Rui doesn't even bother looking up from his notebook.

They lost 2-0 thanks to the wonderboy. Perhaps one day he'll make it his lifelong mission to try to buy Messi off Barcelona.

The press conference afterwards is no better. He'd like to say later on that the media war is all part of his mind games, but if he's honest sometimes he really is that pissed and sometimes he really is that much of a bastard. Or perhaps, the way Pep mentions their 4 years in Barcelona together to the press has hit a little too close to home.

 

He has no idea what he's trying to do or trying to achieve—he always seems to lose track of his mind when it concerns The Catalan, but his feet bring him to the away locker room team after his press conference.

Jose can hear the faint murmur of Pep in his professional tone behind the doors—a team briefing then.

He leans back to the wall and waits. That's when he sees the man of the match heading towards the door of the locker room, still with his jersey on; a stark contrast to Bernabeau's mostly white interior.

Jose's never realized how small he really is. He's seen him from afar, but up close Messi doesn't even reach his height. It somehow throws him back to his playing days. He was told he wasn't fast enough, tall enough to make an impact. Messi wouldn't have even qualified. He sees now why they say the Argentinian will never leave Barca. Jose's not the one for half-assed regrets but it makes him wonder for a second how differently would it all turned out if he started his playing career in Barcelona instead of Portugal. How it would feel to actually run the fields with Luis, with— 

Messi's eyes have finally reached him and they widen for a fraction of second as both of them settle into an uncomfortable silence. For once Jose thanks his luck that it's not Pique on the other end of this situation or else he would've been dead about approximately a minute ago.

The younger man doesn't seem to know how to ask his point without seemingly being rude and he actually seems to care even after all the dramas these past few weeks. Jose decides that he kinda likes him. In the end he feels a little sorry for the guy, so he helps out;

"Tell Josep that someone's waiting for him."  Messi looks as if he's not sure if Jose's here to kill somebody, to intel on some clubs secrets or just to chat but he must've realized the way he deliberately uses his full name—everyone knows Pep only allows his family and people from Barcelona (Their 96 Barcelona) to use his full name, and it's as if he suddenly remembers that Jose was a part of it too, once, so he nods and heads inside. 

The chatter stops in an instant. Jose can only imagine how well it goes. 

A minute later the manager's head pops out of the door. Jose raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything when it disappears again a second afterwards.

He hears a clutter of boots being taken off and objects thrown into lockers; the meeting's dismissed.

The man emerges.

"Are you suicidal or something?"

"You won't stand a chance against me. I used to do boxing." 

"I won't have to, there are 11 furious men behind this door that will kill you for your antics." Pep glares at him.

"What? For calling them out when they're diving? At least this time I'm not the sore loser." Jose glares back. 

"You son of a bitch. You think we all don't know what you're trying to do? You and your dirty mind games—"

Messi walks out.

"It's been a long time, I think we should go get dinner."  

His face is priceless.

Jose feels sorry for him.

 

Jose's pretty sure the only reason Pep follows him to the parking lot is because he doesn't want any witness if he suddenly decides to break his neck.

There's a 10 minutes stare down when Jose walks to his car and waits.

Pep finally gives in and walks over to the passenger side.

Jose pulls his car out in silence while Pep glares at him the entire time. If looks could kill Jose would already be buried in the middle of Atlantic ocean by now.

"I fucking hate you." 

"I agree. Italian seems good."

"If you take me to a restaurant I'll mutilate you in your sleep."

 

Jose doesn't. It would feel too much like a date—10 years still feels too soon for a first date between them, also because he's not that nice to the Spanish free press.

He takes him to his home instead.

 

Jose throws his coat to the settee and heads to his wine reserve—he always has one; to get his strongest—he's going to need it.

When he comes back Pep doesn't even bother to take off his jacket. It pisses him off somehow. He spares the house a few glances and looks straight back at Jose.

"What am I doing here?"

"I can cook."

"That's not what I mean." Jose knows what he means. "Why am I here, Jose?"

Truth is he's not sure either, so he says;

"I think that's something you're supposed to ask yourself."

Pep rubs at his forehead and sighs. 

Jose goes to make pasta.

 

They eat at the small table he has in the kitchen. It's always small because he always eats alone.

He serves the pasta and opens the wine. It's funny what with all the tension and nastiness that are going on right now his heart still can't help to feel a kind of lost nostalgia on the scene before him.

They don't talk. Jose doesn't have any idea what to talk about besides football and they clearly can't talk about football right now. Truth be told he's as clueless on what the hell are they doing right now but he decides it's a little bit too late to back off anyway.

 

"This isn't like you." Pep finally starts after 15 minutes of relentless silence.

"The football or the dinner?"

"The football's predictable," Pep makes an encompassing gesture. "This isn't."

"I'm an impulsive person." He's not. He's a manager, he makes plan and executes it, it's a god given rule he should think that everything's controllable. He only ever makes impulsive decisions when it involves one person.

Pep sighs for what must've been the 100th time in the last few hours. He looks exhausted and 10 years older from the last time that he saw him. "This isn't going to fix anything, you know."

Jose raises to the bait. If they're going to have the conversation either way what's the point of prolonging it. "I'm not trying to. I wasn't the one who started it."

Pep puts down his fork. "Really? With the way you screw around with the media? Everyone knows what you're doing, Jose." 

"What's the matter? Barcelona's golden boy can't stand a little criticism?" Jose leers, Pep calls for blood.

"I don't give a shit about you and your mind games but don't you dare touch my players." They're both hard headed egotistical bastards, but they're managers first, they'll defend their players till death. Jose scoffs.

"Touch your players? They don't exactly need anybody's help to fall, they do it all by themselves—" "Maybe if you don't teach your player to start tackling down anyone with the red and blue jersey each time you lose a goal—" "Maybe if you stop influencing referees to win your games for you—"

A screech of the chair. "I'm leaving." Pep stands up.

He already makes his way to the living room before Jose can fully process what happened. At least he finished his food—his Catalan blood is too polite for that.

By the time Jose catches him he's already on the way to tie his scarf.

"You're taking this personally." Jose quips.

The Catalan sniggers. "And you're not?"

"I wasn't the one who says it to the media." Pep could just as well said to the press that they were fucking for four years when for the whole 10 years they've never even spoken a word about it to each other. It pisses him off.

"Why are you doing all this? Is this to spite me about the Barcelona job?" Jose backs him up to the wall to prevent him from reaching the front door.

"The world doesn't center around you." They're head to head now, none of them wants to be the first to lose and break the eye contact.

"But it does center around you, doesn't it? Everything always has to go your way, or else—"

"That wasn't why I wanted the job and you know it." They're so close Jose could see the way his eyes flares with anger. He pushes against him but Jose's firm on his ground.

"What do you want me to do? Refuse them to save your goddamn ego?! You were the one who left, remember? You left without a single goddamn word and you didn't come back for 10 years. 10 fucking years, Jose! And don't you fucking dare spite me for it while you do as you please. I'm sick and tired of waiting—"

Jose kisses him to shut him up.

 

Pep doesn't respond at first, but Jose's mouth on him is insistent and he finally gives up. Over the past 10 years Jose has imagined it countless times of how it would go, but none of it makes par to when it finally happens. With all the tension and the years between them it should be cold, systematic even. But somehow it isn't.

It's greedy, warm and frustrating at the same time. And the way his lips taste like it's as if time stops 10 years ago and finally starts again. The warmth of his hands on his temple and the feel of his breath on his neck—for the first time Jose learns how to see without his eyes.

Jose walks them back to the bedroom, bodies never an inch apart. There's some kind of desperation in the way Pep tugs at his tie that makes his old heart goes, he pushes his jacket back instead. They're desperate for every inch of everything; the way their hands never leave each other for a second—mapping in case this is the only chance they're given in this lifetime. 

When they're finally skin to skin, their eyes meet and never leave. It's been 10 years and Jose finally remembers how to make love again.

 

He wakes up the next morning with his bed empty and his sheet cold.

 

Afterwards he lays awake in bed for 2 hours before finally making it to work. Rui looks once at his eyes and takes over the coaching for the rest of the day.

Jose doesn't show up for the next match and Barcelona goes on to win the Champions League.

 

Everything becomes painful after that. He stops looking at the sideline during the match and even the players seems to inherit the tension. He'll never admit it, but it feels like there's a six inch valley cut through the middle of his soul and he doesn't know how to deal with it and football at the same time. Three red cards and nine goals later the war breaks out—he would like to applaud anybody who managed to get even Casillas and Iniesta involved; people call it the bloodiest el clasico in history and Jose knows Pep will never forgive him for what he did to Tito.

 

The next season their losing streak against the Blaugranas continues. After 3 more losses Cristiano looks him in the eyes like he expects him to scream his team back into spirit but Jose doesn't even know how to do it to himself so he doesn't say anything.

La Liga arrives. It carries a kind of strange feeling about it—perhaps the whole team is finally sick of losing and petty fights. By the time Camp Nou calls Jose is determined to be the one who has the last word.

When his number 7 strides forward and rounds Valdes to finally put it at the back of the net Jose thinks it's the most beautiful goal he has ever seen. In the midst of the celebration he braves a glance at the home team's bench; Pep's gesture is unreadable but his eyes tell the story that perhaps it hurts a little more than he shows. Jose feels a kind of ugly satisfaction and wonders when did he stop flinching at the sight.

Their triumph ends a run of 55 home games undefeated for the Blaugrana and helps ensure their first Liga title in four years.

At the end of the season Pep announces his leave.

 

He says he's leaving because he's tired. He's going on a sabbatical—New York. Jose says to the press that it's something he'll never do but when he watches the press conference in his house and notices a set of lines under Pep's left eye corner—the one he pressed his lips to that night, all of a sudden he feels a kind of weariness that has nothing to do with football and he thinks he might've understood. Luis Enrique won't talk to him for two months and the other one comes to his house only to call him a jerk and proceeds with an hour rant of the most creative Portuguese swear words Jose has ever heard in his life.

The next season feels empty and pointless. Even el clasico doesn't seem to be that exciting anymore, Tito's Barca is strong but it's boring. He won't admit how strange it feels to look on the sidelines and see no familiar set of brown eyes. 

He calls it the worst season of his career and when he signs the leave contract a few months later no one suspects that it's not just because of the scoreline.

 

It's a nostalgia of emptiness; the way something is given and something has to be taken. He's a rational man but still he finds himself longing for the non existing reality—that they're someone else other than themselves; who met by chance on the streets of Barcelona, who have never even heard a word of football, who read poetry and cook horrible dinner in the evening with nothing to argue about other than who's feeding the cat. 

Who fell in love in the midst of a warm Barcelona summer night and has nothing held against them.

 

New York is thousands of miles away and Jose has long stopped having any idea of what home is. Perhaps that's why he chooses to come back to Chelsea. And still it doesn't feel right. He wonders if he'll ever be able to feel right again.

Bayern calls for the Catalan and he comes.

 

Their teams meet once in the UEFA Super Cup. Jose tries to treat it like any other leg and Pep avoids eye contact during the whole match. It feels like the longest 90 minutes of his life and when the whistle finally blows he's almost thankful for the way Rui's hand briefly rests soothingly on his shoulder.

The handshake burns and the pain doesn't go away for a week.

 

 

In the end it all comes down to Manchester.

 

The morning the deal is on the front page of the local newspaper Jose spits out his coffee; they haven't been in the same city since 2000. 

He comes home that night and stumbles upon their photo from the 1998 season on the back of his unpacked suitcase—both of them sitting side by side on the sidelines, looking on the world with no idea about what's to come.

Jose has always thought that he would always have enough time. Only now that he realizes his time has been running out ever since he left 16 years ago.

Jose has always believed that he's a sore loser, the reason he avoids everything. Only now that he knows he doesn't have anything left to lose ever since he opened his door on that warm evening night in Barcelona.

Manchester is a city of hope and Jose is one miserable fool who hasn't learned anything about moving on even after 16 years.

He calls Rui the next morning for an address. 

 

Pep's apartment is two blocks down from his place. He contemplates walking since it's night anyway and nobody would spot him but he decides that he doesn't have enough courage to do it so he takes the car.

The front man's eyes widen at the sight of him but at least he buzzes him up without a single word.

Jose knocks on the door. There's no answer for a whole minute and he's struck by a sudden feeling of terror. What if someone else opens the door; that he's 16 years too late. What if he's the only fool, the only one left waiting and that he'll spend the rest of his days alone because the other half of his equation doesn't balance. That there's already someone else—the right one. 

He almost turns to leave but at that moment the door opens and his heart is cruel because it's been 16 years but Jose still loses all of his coherent thoughts at the very sight of him.

"Jose." Pep looks genuinely surprised. He's grown his beard since the last time they met, and his eyes are softer now—as if they've made peace with all the weariness of the past years.

"Josep." He doesn't know what else to say; Spain seems light years away and it's as if they're entering a new era—the one where they have no idea how it stands between them.

Pep is the first to move and he steps back to let Jose in.

There's no one inside and he might never admit it but he's never been more relieved in his life.

"Have you come to bury the hatchet?" Pep starts, vying for a light tone but fails—there's too much history between them for anything to be that simple again. Pep walks in and leans at the far side of the kitchen counter.

Jose remembers Rome and he doesn't turn to the window this time. There has been enough running in his life, for the first time he wants to face it properly.

"Second chance."

"What?" Pep frowns.

"I've come for a second chance." Pep is silent but Jose can see his knees wobbling.

"Jose—" Pep finally sighs.

"I'm a fool."

His voice breaks but he decides to continue while he still has the courage, "16 years ago I made the biggest mistake in my life. My time stops. It never starts again."

Jose is a selfish bastard but he’s done pretending. 

"Never after you."

Pep looks him in the eyes for what feels like the first time after so many years.

"It's never that simple." There’s a way his eyes set that radiates a long desperation and Jose realizes that this last 16 years he didn’t suffer alone. "We're sore losers and we're here for a reason. There's no such thing as starting over, Jose."

Jose doesn't move, he doesn't think he's able to.

"Then I'm asking you for it now."

The silence seems to stretch on forever. Jose finally understands what it means, the way people say it’s like offering his heart out in his hand, allowing it to be stabbed at any second.

Pep covers his eyes.

"How?" He finally croaks; so soft Jose almost misses it. 

 

There's a record player at the end of the room. It stands still, an item of a long lost past in the midst of his modern flat. 

Years ago when they were young and reckless back in Barcelona he had given it to him for his 26th birthday. He didn't want to buy him something new, too scared if it would signify the start of something he couldn't understand yet so he gave him the record player and one of his old record instead.

He heads towards it and finds what he's looking for. Jose traces the cover. He thinks Pep would've thrown it away at some point—the way he should've done with Jose 16 years ago, but still it rests there on the shelves and Jose feels his heart goes. 

It's a Portuguese song—one of his favourite. He puts the record on and a wave of unexplainable nostalgia touches his soul. It reminds him of Portugal; before Benfica; before Porto; before football—the way his parents used to dance on the front porch of his old house on a midsummer's night; the feijoada his grandmother cooked for him when he was sick; a secret passageway that he discovered on the way to and from his school when he was a boy. 

He turns then and heads towards the younger man. "A dance."

"What?"

"Starting over. We've never had a dance." Pep looks at him as if he's crazy but Jose offers his hand anyway.

There's a slight hesitation in the way Pep finally moves his hand; but when it touches his it's warm and gentle.

It's terrifying at first; he has never done it before—not with anyone that matters. But the way their bodies seems to fall into place like they never left in the first place—Jose isn't sure if he'll find any more meaning in his life afterwards if it all fails. 

The night outside is silent and the Manchester city lights frame their silhouettes in the gentle darkness that somehow Jose feels as if they're 25 again. The music plays softly in the background; its words follow their every step as if encompassing everything they've shared in the lost 16 years.

 

 _E por falar em saudade, onde_   _anda você_

—And speaking of the longing that remains, where have you been

 

The way their cheeks graze procures a kind of burning his old heart has long forgotten. There's a certain gentleness in the way his hand rests on his shoulder and the feel of the soft fabric that separates his fingers and the younger man's waist.

  

_Onde andam os seus olhos, que a gente_ _não vê_

—Where have your eyes been that we do not see

 

The way their feet sway to the soft rhythm of the guitar is somehow in sync with the warmth that radiates when the tip of their nose brushes. His brown eyes dance to the soft touch of the moonlight and in them is a silhouette of his whole world.

 

_Onde anda esse corpo, que me deixou morto de tanto prazer_

—Where has this body been, that left me dead of all this pleasure

 

"You've never told me the reason."

"Of what?"

"16 years ago."

 

_E por falar em beleza, onde anda a canção_

—And speaking of beauty, where has the song been

 

"I didn't think I was ready then,"

"For what?"

"Discover the way you made me see my life the way it's supposed to be."

 

_Que se ouvia na noite, dos bares de então onde a gente ficava_

—That was heard at night in the bars where we used to stay,

 

"You weren't there."

"When?"

"5 years ago."

"Madrid."

"Why did you leave?"

 

 _Onde a gente se amava em total solidão_   

—Where we used to love in total solitude

 

"Because if I didn't then I don't know if I ever could."

 

 

 

Their feet tangle under the sheet and he has to sacrifice his favourite side of the bed but Jose also finds out that he couldn't care less.

 

 

Rui walks with him to the parking lot after practice the next day.

There's someone leaning on the front door of his car.

His friend gives him the happiest smile in the world, touches his arm, turns around and leaves.

 

Pep is holding a bottle of cheap wine and a sack of pasta.

 

"You're late."

 

Jose thinks he doesn't mind even if he is 100 years too late.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, just to avoid any confusion: There are two Luis-es. Luis Figo is the Portuguese Barca's superstar from the 90s who transferred to Madrid with a lot of controversy. The other one is Luis Enrique, also a Spanish Barca player from the same era as Guardiola and Figo; you might recognize him as the late Barca manager.
> 
> And, if anyone needs any help to all the matches and events referenced in this fic, skysports does a mean job of it: http://www.skysports.com/football/news/11662/10566985/jose-mourinho-v-pep-guardiola-the-story-of-the-rivalry
> 
> Guardiola and Mourinho are masters of languages. I can only guess they've had their fair share of fun with it. And this fic is as much about them as it is about the languages (as you can tell I'm a huge language enthusiast). Their natives are always the truest though. I have found myself a couple of times instantly switching back to my native language when I'm furious or saying inexpressible things. That's why I think the way Pep and Jose use their languages also plays a part in determining their relationship."
> 
> In case you're wondering, Saudade is an untranslatable Portuguese word for what was once described as "the love that remains after someone is gone. It's a nostalgia of emptiness, something that should be there in a particular moment is missing, and the individual feels this absence. A vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist, for something other than the present.
> 
> Also forgive my love of Portuguese poetry and songs. They are so pure and beautiful, yet often neglected because of the language barrier. English is not a romantic language; you need more words to express emotions and feelings. I hope I manage to convey it through this work.
> 
> I have a soft spot for all the people that have managed to put up with these two during the long course of their career. They don't exactly have the easiest personalities. So this fic is a little tribute to them as well, I suppose.
> 
> This work is my self indulgent way of coping with the fact that no one in the world cares about this ship. It's so sappy I don't even know how I manage to finish it! So please, comment and share your thoughts! Let me know you're there! I'm dying to hear from you guys out there! Thanks!
> 
> P.S.  
> Poor Leo.  
> I know right he's adorable.


End file.
